


The Friendly Skies

by Severina



Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: Community: smallfandomfest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-16
Updated: 2012-06-16
Packaged: 2017-11-07 21:23:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/435600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John suggests a vacation, Matt jumps on it.  He pictures white sands, hot sun.  The infinite possibilities involving suntan oil.  He just somehow forgets about that whole fear of flying thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Friendly Skies

**Author's Note:**

> Written for LJ's smallfandomfest community, for the prompt "that fear of flying thing"
> 
> * * *

When John suggests a vacation, Matt jumps on it. He pictures white sands, hot sun. The infinite possibilities involving suntan oil. He just somehow forgets about that whole fear of flying thing.

* * *

"You know what?" Matt says when John's stowed their carry-on bags and they're in their seats. "I think I changed my mind. I don't really want to go to the Caribbean." He forces a weak smile. "We could drive to Atlantic City. That'd be fun, right?"

"Scared?" John asks.

A bigger man might feel the need to be all tough and macho, deny any trace of fear. Matt is not a bigger man.

"Damn right I'm scared," he says, and if his voice goes up an extra octave so be it. "Do you want to know the stats I have on airline fatalities? Every single airline – yes, even Qantas, despite what _Rain Man_ says – every single airline has had at least one crash, John, and most of them a shitload more than one. Engine failure, fire, _human error_ —"

John shakes his head. "Nothing's gonna happen to us, kid."

Matt has no problem picturing about fifty things happening, all of them bad. In fact, his capacity for imagining the absolute Worst Case Scenario has only about tripled since he met John McClane. His eyes widen as he realizes that he'd only been calculating the chances of an in-flight disaster from the usual causes. He hadn't even considered the McClane factor.

They're doomed.

"You remember I told you I hated flying, right?" 

Matt blinks, tries to pull his mind away from figuring out which of the seemingly innocuous people around them is actually planning on brandishing a semi-automatic in an attempt to ransom the passengers for the secret code to a hidden CIA bank account. Or which one is a long lost Gruber. 

He realizes John is staring at him patiently, reluctantly pulls his gaze away from a suspicious looking senior with a bag full of knitting in her lap. 

"I can't remember," he says. "Did you tell me that before or after you crashed the helicopter we were flying in through a chain link fence?"

John sighs. "It was bad. I'd get the shakes the night before, start dry-heaving into the toilet bowl—"

Matt feels his own stomach give a determined lurch. He really should not have had eggs for breakfast. Or, like, anything at all. He swallows dryly. "Okay, not helping."

"The point is, Matt, I got over it."

Matt looks down to where John's hands are clutching the armrests, and raises a brow. 

"Okay," John concedes, "I mostly got over it. Just… think about something else. That'll help."

"Something else? How am I supposed to think about something else? We're in a giant metal box about to hurtle itself through the sky—"

"You like facts," John interrupts. "Okay then, here's a fact for you, smart guy. More people die in car accidents every year than in airplane crashes. Doesn't stop you from getting in a car, does it?"

"John, we were almost _killed_ by a flying car in that tunnel, so that… yeah, that _really_ doesn't help."

"Fine," John grits out. "How about this: if you don't stop talking about us crashing, I may puke all over your goddamn lap. How about that?"

Matt looks sharply over, grimaces at what he sees. John has gone a shade of white that Matt's only used to seeing when he looks in the mirror, and the muscles in his arms are actually bunching out from the pressure he's exerting on the arm rest. Matt has a sudden mental picture of John's fingers actually crunching through the metal. 

"Sorry," he says sheepishly. "Not making it any easier on you, am I?"

John manages a small shrug. "'S'okay, kid. Just calm the fuck down. Maybe just be quiet for a while, all right?"

Matt tries. He really does. 

He studies the woman with the blue rinse, but her bag seems to legitimately only carry yarn. There's no one in the immediate vicinity loading oversized guitar cases that could be hiding large calibre machine guns. The staff – hostesses in trim white and blue uniforms – are moving about efficiently. Nobody is making suspicious eye contact or speaking furtively into walkie talkies.

There's a low grade hum that's mildly annoying, but that's it. He feels himself start to relax, the tension slowly leaking out of his shoulders. 

"Okay, this is… this isn't bad," he says softly to himself. He's actually reaching for the in-flight magazine when there's a thump and a loud squeal from beneath his feet. He looks up sharply, eyes wide. "Except for that. What is that? Is that supposed to happen?"

"It's just the engines."

"Are they supposed to be that whiney? That loud and screechy whiney noise? Is that normal?"

"Yeah," John says. Matt glances over in time to see John side-glance him warily. "Pretty sure."

"Pretty sure? Pretty sure, McClane, seriously?"

"Matt," John says tersely. "Do you see anyone else flipping their shit?"

Matt glances around the cabin. Not only is no one else actually flipping their shit, as John says, but they all look completely blasé about the whole thing. The air stewards aren't even hesitating with their pre-flight routine. The guy in the seat across from them is half-asleep. 

"No?"

"No," John repeats firmly. "So just—"

"Whoa. Okay. We're moving. Taxiing down the runway here, John."

"Usually what happens before take-off, kid," John says. 

And now he's sounding a little… amused. Matt scowls across at him. "This is what it takes for you to relax, John? It's good to know that my complete and utter terror is enough to distract you for our imminent deaths, because—"

John kisses him. Not just a normal, everyday, I'm Passing By You On The Way To The Fridge So I'm Gonna Kiss You kiss, but one of the patented John McClane specials. The kind that starts out with a slow, wet slide before progressing to a little lower lip nibbling and then goes full hog into teeth and tongue and vigorous jaw action.

"Oh." Matt says when they part. "Wow. Okay. So that? That helped." He leans back in his chair, feeling supremely satisfied, then makes the mistake of glancing out the tiny window. The ground is decelerating away from them at a rapid rate, and his stomach does a slow-motion tumble. "Ohhhhhh shit."

"Look here," John says. 

Matt grins when he sees that John is pointing at his lips. And hey, who is he to refuse? Airplane macking is probably helping to ease John's nerves, too. Matt dives back in, and doesn't come up for air until they're at ten thousand feet and the pilot is announcing that it's okay to remove their seatbelts. 

"Yeah," Matt sighs. "That definitely worked." He glances down at his groin, grimaces. "Maybe too much."

John cups a hand over his own dick, stifles a groan. "I hear ya, kid."

"How long is this flight?"

"Five hours."

Matt leans back, bangs his head repeatedly against the soft headrest.

The stewards start to make their rounds. Matt hears the old lady with the knitting ask for a jack and coke; shakes his own head when the hostess asks if he'd like some peanuts. The guy in the seat across from them starts snoring.

"So. Um," Matt say finally into the silence. "What do you think about becoming a member of the mile high club?"

"Give me two minutes," John says, already unclasping his seatbelt. "Then follow me."

Fear of flying has its benefits.


End file.
